And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
by Raiining
Summary: BtVSHP: postHBP & season 7 Buffy is searching for an Albus Dumbledore, looking for a way to save her sister Dawn. But when Dawn disappears, Buffy is left alone. With the help of friends both new and old, can Buffy save her sister from herself? HG, RH,
1. Prologue: At the end … and the beginning

_I wrote this months ago now, and have been fiddling with the idea ever since. I've got four chapters written so far, but no guarantee that I'm going to be able to keep this going on a reasonable time scale. Medical school – while deliriously exciting – is also the biggest time sink since cable tv. _

To all network people: I own nothing. Harry Potter & co. belong to that marvelous J.K.Rowling, and Buffy and friends is eternally Joss's property. I am but a humble admirer of their work, and shamelessly worship them both. Enjoy!

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

**Prologue**

_**One Year Ago …**_

" … I hear there's a Hellmouth in Cleveland …"

"We destroyed the Mall! Dammit, I fought on the wrong side!"

" … you're just another Slayer now, Buff. What are you going to do?"

Buffy Ann Summers stood and surveyed the sinkhole that was – that had been – Sunnydale. Moonlight glinted off the wreckage, smoke curled through the broken streets, and yet a strange peacefulness had settled over the scene. Very slowly, her gaze still fixed on some distant place only she could see, the girl who had saved the world – again – smiled.

And miles away, in a small office crammed with two desks and a mountain of paperwork, in a box no one had thought to examine in almost three years, an ear-splitting alarm began to scream.

Arthur Weasley was not having a good day.

_And smile, and nod, and_ "Hey Pete! Heard about those biting tea-cups down in Bristol? No, no - no one hurt. Just more paperwork to fill out!" _Wave and keep walking. Good. A few more minutes and you just might make it …_

Arthur turned to smile at another long-time Ministry employee, slowing but not stopping his (hopefully) inevitable nearing of the lift gate. Reaching the small crowd surrounding the Level Two lift, he forced himself to smile and make small-talk while he waited. The lift seemed to take forever to arrive. When the heavy jangling and clanging announced his freedom, the small cue was forced to wait while a flood of fluttering memos exited the grates first. Arthur tried not to stare at the bewitched papers, paying strict attention to Bob's newest cross-species misadventure in an effort not to wonder if one of those memos were for him.

He could easily imagine what it might say: ARTHUR WEASLEY – DO NOT LEAVE THE BUILDING. ARTHUR WEASLEY – REPORT TO THE MINISTER OF MAGIC'S OFFICE. ARTHUR WEASLEY – DEMENTOR GUARDS HAVE ARRIVED TO ESCORT YOU TO AZKABAN, PLEASE RELIGUISH YOUR WAND AND HAVE A NICE DAY.

Bloody knuckle-cracking, You-Know-Who-Denying, oblivious Cornelius Fudge. Arthur struggled to look impressed as Bob held out his hands ("It was _this_ big! Don't know how they even managed to hatch the thing!") and somehow managed a low whistle. The lift made several stops before reaching the Atrium. Every time the doors opened, Arthur would wonder if Fudge and a claxon of Aurors stood on the other side. His pulse would quicken and sweat began bead on his brow. But only memos fluttered in and out of the clattering doors, and once a witch completely absorbed in the most recent edition of the _Quibbler_ entered the carriage without looking up. Arthur recognized the cover at once – hard not to with poor Harry's face splashed across it like that – as the edition where You-Know-Who's return had been published.

Arthur knew the story, of course. As a member of the Order, he had heard it all last summer. Still, it had been chilling to read the account as told by Harry himself. At the memory, Arthur's esteem of the boy rose even higher, were that possible. After all, Harry was practically a son to him, and had saved his life only weeks ago.

But though he had already heard the story, most of those working at the Ministry had not. Fudge was doing everything he could to discredit it, but he couldn't very well stop the mail from coming and most people at the Ministry subscribed to the _Quibbler_. Still, it was rather risky to read the article within the Ministry hallways. Arthur glanced over at the witch, but couldn't make out her face behind the paper. He wanted to look over and ask Bob what he thought, but the two of them had made an informal decision not to talk politics at work. It was too dangerous. Bob had children to support too.

Conversation continued in the lift much as it had before, but Arthur was paying even less attention to it now. They were approaching the Atrium, and sweat was beginning to swim across his forehead again. If Fudge was going to arrest him, he would do it here …

But the lift doors opened without revealing a phalanx of Aurors. Arthur forced himself to glance only casually around the open space. Dozens of witches and wizards dashed about, some glancing at the centre fountain as they did so, but most concerned only with the hustle and bustle that was their daily lives. Arthur walked quickly as he darted towards one of the fireplaces on the left side of the Atrium. Several co-workers greeted him by name, and he stopped to chat for a moment with each of them. Above all, it was imperious that he act normal. Nothing was amiss. There was nothing to be concerned about. Spies were everywhere in the Ministry these days. Arthur wanted desperately to trust those he talked too, but as each conversation dragged he could not help but grow suspicious.

Finally he neared the left-hand wall. Joining the cue, Arthur reached into his pocket and withdrew a pinch of Floo powder. He was fifth in line – a quick glance revealed nothing out of the ordinary – fourth in line – was that Fudge emerging from the lift? – third in line – no it was just another wizard, bowling hats had become quite the fashion once Fudge began to acquire power. The witch in front of him stepped up and announced her destination with a brisk shout ("Number ninety three, Diagon Alley!"), and then it was his turn.

Arthur stepped into the fireplace. Ashes licked at his scuffed and beaten boots. He removed the floo-powder from his pocket … he had thrown it on the ground … the words were out of his mouth before he dared to hope he was free … the fireplace took him and he spun and spun, tucking in his elbows out of habit, one thought fluttering memo-like around his brain:

_I made it. I'm out. _

* * *

There were times when Albus Percival Wulfric Brain Dumbledore hated to be proven right. Guessing that Tom Riddle – now styling himself as Lord Voldemort – would return was one of those times. This was another.

Arthur Weasley stood before him, his receding hairline decorated with sweat, his hands shaking slightly as they waited in the Entrance Hall of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Dumbledore sighed and averted his eyes, the blue orbs traveling to the ceiling as if he could read how to proceed from there. After a ponderous moment, he again lowered his gaze to Arthur Weasley, a good and decent man if there ever was one.

"And the alarm went off just as you entered work? No one else noticed it that you could tell or perceive?"

Arthur shook his head. "I wanted to send word immediately, but I got a flood of owls that morning and didn't want to appear acting out of the ordinary. Fudge has watchers all over the Ministry nowadays. I waited until the end of work, but couldn't bring it with me. It was too large to fit in my pocket, and even common spells are being monitored …"

Dumbledore shook his head, sending his white beard swinging softly side-to-side. "There is no value in the object now anyways, you acted correctly Arthur. I can only hope Lord Voldemort has not yet acquired this information," he ignored the sharp intake of breath that followed the mentioning of an unmentionable name, "but I trust you when you say no one else heard the alarm. Even if they did," he continued, a slightly twinkled coming back into his eye, "they would not necessarily notice it for what it was. That was why I asked for it to be stored in your office in the first place."  
Arthur laughed as only one strung too long on too short a rope could laugh, "A muggle alarm clock – I have several boxes full of them. Even the night guards don't react anymore."

Albus Dumbledore smiled and reached forward to pat the younger man on the shoulder. "Go into the kitchen and eat now, Arthur. You have done well, and are not quite recovered yet, I think. Molly will have my head if I keep you from your dinner much longer."

With a grateful look, Arthur Weasley handed the responsibility baton to the man most capable of wielding it, and disappeared down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. He had done his job and done it well, it was now in the hands of an older and wiser wizard to decide what to do next. And he might even still have a job come Monday. Dumbledore's plan, yet again, had proven secure. No one should be able to implicate his family in this newest information leak.

But the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye died the moment Arthur walked away. The elderly Headmaster walked to the wall and put a steadying hand on it, drawing strength from the solidity of the wood and the magic lying active therein. The House rejected him, of course, but that was only the surface impression. The deeper wood knew him as all things knew him, and lent him what strength it could.

_More time_, the elderly headmaster thought despondedly to himself. _If only I had more time_.

But he – they – did not. He wanted to put off his journey, to investigate this alarm, confirm for himself if it was true. But such a cross-continental journey would be taxing, and he would need all his failing strength now.

Yes, there was no way to put it off. He would have to begin his journey soon, would do his own part in this escalating war. And Harry … Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile. Harry would understand. At least, he would with time.

Pushing himself gently off the wall, Albus gave the fortifying wood a comforting pat before he turned and made his own way to the kitchen. All great adventures, after all, begin with a sound lunch.

And he had some time. He could ask a friend to investigate. Yes, Albus nodded absently to himself as he walked away from the hall, he could do that indeed.

-------

_hey guys! Sorry about the edit there: I forgot to add the last bit to this prologue. Best to put the past all together and leave it there, then move on to the present, eh? _

_But review please! Good or bad – let me know what your thinking!_

_-- raiining_


	2. Chapter One

_Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews of the last chappy – **please run back and read the end again though**, **I had forgotten to add the last section to the prologue**. And then scurry back here and read on to chapter one – or Buffy will get lonely and lay the Slayer Smackdown and you:-D_

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Chapter One

She had been fine until Paris.

Buffy Summers sat cuddled in one of the over-sized armchairs before the Library's fire-grate. A mug of coco sat wrapped in her petite hands, its memories more than its chocolate a source of comfort in the gloom. A mound of textbooks and aging scrolls sat temporarily abandoned on the desk behind her, their unsympathetic pages oblivious to her tortured mind.

They never had made it to Cleveland. After meeting with Angel in L.A., the gang had set up a temporarily newly-called-Slayer-support-headquarters in the acquired offices of Wolfram and Heart. How exactly her ex-boyfriend had taken command of those offices was a matter of much explanation at first, but once stories were exchanged the two groups melded together with much less fuss than Buffy would have expected. Using Wolfram and Heart's almost-unlimited resources, the much-dimutive Scooby Gang had advertised their expertise to young women all over the world. Many had flocked to the L.A. office, and an entire floor – including three wings and four bathrooms – had been taken over by the newly-awakened Slayers. They had learned history first, most notably who they were and why they were important, and then had been separated into teams and taken to be trained.

The most amazing thing about it was how little work had fallen onto her shoulders. Faith had really stepped up to the plate, with Robin Wood at her side the entire time, and Xander had been almost single-minded in his renovation plan for the floor. Willow, Kennedy, and that cute brown haired girl – Fred – had dedicated themselves to establishing the new Division of Slayer Services (and writing the contract up thereof), while Giles and Weasley (could she _say_ grown-up-and-found-the-Darkness?) threw themselves into the mess that was the Watcher's Council.

Hard work and lots of clever computer something-or-another had revealed the Council had several offices across Europe besides the main Headquarters that had been destroyed by the First Evil. None quite as large as that in England, but all including at least two fully-trained-but-inexperienced Watchers. Each site was sent an invitation to L.A., and most had accepted. With all central leadership gone, many of the newly minted Watchers needed the reassurance of someone older and more knowledgeable then they. Giles was often that one.

However someone still needed to visit the often out-of-the-way Council Quarters, talk with those Watchers who could not or would not travel to L.A., and search for young Slayers still unaware of their burgeoning powers. Buffy had volunteered to be that someone.

It had been an easy decision, really. There was nothing tying her to California any more. Willow was fine with Fred and Kennedy, Xander was hurting – badly – but had committed himself to finishing the planned renovations on the Wolfram and Heart offices. Giles was up to his neck in paperwork she could barely understand, and Angel was brooding again. Because Spike was dead and Buffy, in her own way, mourned him.

Angel had felt it when his gran-childe died. He had almost launched over to Buffy when their bedraggled group stumbled in his front door, and she could read the pain and loss in his eyes better than anyone there. He felt pride – a Father's pride – when Buffy explained what Spike had done. But nothing could change the fact that he was dead, and that Angel felt he should have died in his place.

It was a stupid notion, and Buffy tried to tell him so. But there was only one person who could drag Angel from his thoughts when he was brooding, and she was still lying in a coma in the most equipped hospital money could buy.

Buffy and Willow had visited Cordelia once, long enough for Willow to determine that Cordelia was alive, simply … not there right now. They tried to reassure themselves that she was somewhere else, resting and healing, but no one could say when – or if – she would return.

And so L.A. for Buffy had been a confusing place, where Angel brooded and Fred giggled, Wesley smiled and that green-skinned demon that gave Buffy the wiggings simply sang. The only person she really felt comfortable talking to was the battle-ready Gunn, but his attention had been soon captured by the fleet of Slayers arriving in L.A. There was no Spike to keep her on her verbal toes, no tree-lined graveyards to give her peace, and no rest from the ever-present, ever-grumbling and giggling Slayers who wanted – but no longer needed – her aid.

And so she had left. She had run away as she always did, and no one tried to stop her this time. No one, that was, but one.

L.A. had been good to Dawn, at least at first. The entire city was a distraction from the loss of the only home she had ever known, and she had gotten on well with Fred, and Wesley too. But as the offices began to fill with Slayers and people were absorbed into their own separate projects, Buffy would watch as Dawn strayed again and again to the windows, and would notice when Dawn's head would whip around at a crowded shopping mall, searching for that glimpse of a peroxide-bleached head.

Buffy knew her sister had suffered bad as she had at the end of Sunnydale – worse actually, because there had been words spoken between her and Spike that had never been taken back. Dawn and Spike had shared a summer, a bond of loss, that Buffy could never understand. That friendship had been badly shaken when Buffy and Spike began their ill-fated relationship, and Spike's breach of trust had severed whatever last threads had tied them together. And she had never, not during the whole year after he came back, forgiven him for what he had tried to do.

Still, Buffy knew traveling to find newly awakened Slayers wasn't going to be a walk in the preverbal park. They would be dealing with demons never before encountered, with what backup scared and distrustful Awakens could produce. Besides that there was school and life to consider – and Dawn, in Buffy's opinion, deserved both.

But Dawn disagreed, arguing that it was summer anyways and her life was her own, and Giles had backed her up. In the end Buffy, for all her stubbornness, was too tried and worn out to fight. She just wanted to leave, and if Dawn wished to come with her then fine – she would send her home on a third-class flight the first moment she could.

For the first few days of traveling, then, the two sisters refused to speak to each other, Buffy giving orders in short snapping sentences and Dawn boiling while they still set foot on North American soil. But soon as they settled into Peru, Dawn had stopped listening to her older sister, and Buffy muttered dark things about untrained tag-alongs. Things stood at the breaking point until the air fairly crackled between them, and on the morning of the fourth day, when Buffy awoke to see Dawn sharpening the edge of a locally-purchased dagger, all gloves had come off.

They screamed at each other until their faces turned blue and every occupied room around them emptied, they laughed with each other about all the inappropriate comments Anya had made, and they cried together as only sisters could. They remembered and they mourned and they missed all those who had left them too soon. Anya, who had practically been a sister-in-law, and Joyce, their mother; Tara, their friend; and Spike, their something-extra. Dawn had mourned Buffy all over again, remembering how terrible it had been without her, and Buffy had held her sister close and cried with the unrestrained fear of losing her, a terror revealed in far too many close calls. They hadn't left the hotel until six that evening, and only then for pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni. It had been a time of needed bonding, and it had drawn them closer together than ever.

And then she had been fine until Paris.

They had arrived at the City a month ago now, looking for the third Council Quarters on their list. They had found the brick-red building easily enough – considering neither girl spoke two sentences of understandable French – and had met with the friendly-but-frightened Council members before the sun had set. Those Slayers that had already been found by the Watchers were introduced next, and the five girls greeted Buffy with welcomes that varied from respectful admiration to unrestrained anger. They were common enough responses, and Buffy had spent the next few weeks working with the girls. Training and a gradual creation of trust helped to smooth the rough edges, and nightly trips to the various Paris graveyards fostered a sense of earned respect all around.

That was when Dawn began acting oddly.

Actually as Buffy thought about it, curled as she was before the fire in the small but elegant Council Library, the episodes had started weeks before that. Small instances Buffy could remember only when she thought about them, moments of uncharacteristic forgetfulness and confusion in a sister that was inherently smarter than Buffy would ever be. But the episodes had not been many until they had arrived in France from South America. Then her sister began missing evening meals, and Buffy would find her sitting on her bed, staring into space with a frightening blank look on her young face. At first she would rouse when called, but lately even calling her name could do nothing to snap her out of it. Buffy had to pick her up and shake her last night, frightened that her sister was having some sort of stroke. Maybe these things ran in families, maybe she would lose her sister like she lost her mother, maybe she would call Dawn one day to find her sprawled out on her bed, her eyes open and unseeing, gone – gone to where she could not follow, like so many others …

Buffy had rushed her sister to the hospital, but as before Dawn insisted nothing was wrong. She never remembered being lost in space, and would laughingly declare that Buffy was becoming paranoid. Even when she grudgingly agreed to visit a hospital, the doctors could find nothing wrong. Magical scans had also turned up negative, but then magical scans weren't always reliable when Dawn was involved. A side-effect of the whole 'mystical key' thing, Willow had once explained.

Buffy had finally talked to Giles, who had suggested a few books to read and promised to do research on his own. But he couldn't think of much else to do, and also expressed concern over Buffy's ability to remain neutral when reporting 'odd occurrences' involving her sister. She was, after all, notoriously over-protective.

But she _had not_ been imaging things. Something was seriously wrong with Dawn. And was she going to find out what that something was.

Buffy had taken to spending her nights prowling around the Library. She found those texts Giles had suggested, and struggled to beat her mind through them. But most went over her head, and Buffy often missed Willow and Xander in those moments. The three of them had a way of conquering – or at least laughing over – any dusty old text.

Things were almost wrapped up here in Paris now. Buffy had been planning on tackling Britain next – she had left _that_ trip until later because she had a feeling it would be a doozy – but now she wasn't sure what to do. A few of the texts she had struggled through seemed to hint at what might be wrong with Dawn, and she had emailed Willow the titles and page numbers only a half-hour ago. Willow had promised to get in contact with Giles and share the information. He should be calling her back any minute now, and Buffy desperately hoped he would have good news.

She had already lost a mother, and too many friends – she would _not_ lose her sister next.

* * *

_Hey guys! Hope you went back and read the extra bit added onto the prologue – don't know if you've noticed but I've been fiddling with the titles. Ghah – the one thing I never ever remember to decide beforehand!_

_Hope you liked this chapter – lots of paragraphs, I know, but things needed explaining. In case you were wondering about the timing, this chapter is set in the summer after season 7 of BtVS and before HBP. Over the next few chapters I'll thread this storyline through Harry's 6th and oh-so-eventful year, and then continue on to year 7. (I know – I'm too ambitious by half, its little wonder I play a Slytherin on an on-line RPG!)_

_Again – please review!_

_--raiining_


	3. Chapter Two

_Thanks to everyone for the great reviews! I'm trying to reply to people, but I'm working on the worst internet connection ever right now – whenever I finally get to read the reviews, it conks out before I can reply!_

_But enough of me, more of Buffy. Here's chappy 2 – enjoy!_

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep:

Chapter Two

The ringing of the phone jerked Buffy from her light doze. There was a crink her shoulder from the armchair she had dozed off in, and the fire in the grate had died down low. Blinking blearily at the ornate clock that hung above the mantelpiece, Buffy realized several hours had passed. The phone beside rang again, seemingly louder and most instant this time. Fumbling slightly, she reached for it.

"Hoo-hello?" She yawned.

"Buffy?" The voice on the other end, sounding very far away, was nonetheless instantly familiar.

"Giles!" Buffy felt her worry jerk her wide awake. She stood out of her chair and leaned into the phone, "Have you talked to Willow?"

The voice on the other end sounded tired, and briefly Buffy wondered at the time difference between them. If it was late _here_ … "I did. And I reviewed the texts myself, just to be sure. I'd like to say how impressed I was, first, because these particular scrolls were quite …"

"Giles." Buffy interrupted, worry causing her heart to skip, "You're stalling."

He sighed, far away in L.A. "Okay. Well … it seems as if you may indeed be correct – there is the, the possibility that something is wrong with Dawn."

Buffy willed herself to remain calm. "What is it – a demon possession? Because I've got eight Slayers in the area ready to take on anything you point to. Can Willow do a location spell? It's got to be in the general area …"

"Buffy," it was his turn to interrupt her, "It's not a possession. I know," he continued over her protest, "that such a thing would be easier to fight. But from what these texts indicate, then what is wrong with Dawn may be a consequence of – of who she is. Of _what_ she is. The Key. I, I _can't_ confirm anything until we get a few more references though. I need you to go to England tomorrow."

The Key. Buffy hated to think of Dawn like that, hated to push back the veil of what she knew was magic, and examine her life before her sister was brought into it. There was history without Dawn, Buffy knew. But …

"She's not just the Key – she's my _sister_. And I will do anything I can to save her. _Anything. _So England it is, Giles. But," Buffy frowned, "Wouldn't everything there have been destroyed?"

She could swear she heard Giles cleaning his glasses. "Well, if this were a normal book, then it might have been. But this text is one of the most sacred texts the Council owned, a – a 'map' for lack of a better word, of all we know of the universe. It is one of the few texts in which the Key is mentioned in detail. The only copy I know of is in England, though Willow, Fred, and Wesley are looking for a duplicate now. The good news is it wouldn't have been stored at the Council Headquarters – a book like this is too important and rare to be held with the other common texts – and so it might have survived the destruction caused by the First Evil."

Buffy didn't like 'might have's, but it seemed as if she had no choice but to go and look for it anyways. Taking a deep breath, Buffy nodded as if Giles could see her. "Okay, we'll leave tomorrow. I'd feel better leaving Dawn here, but with these attacks of hers …" the Slayer shook her head. "Where can I find this hidden Key-explaining text?"

"The vaults I'm thinking of would have been safe from all outward attacks, and unless a very concentrated effort was put into breaking them, the information contained therein should still be secure. Only three people in the world knew how to get into them, and if one of them died the passwords and passages were altered. The First Evil would have had to do more than simply waltz over and open them – and I'm willing to bet that with its forces concentrated on you and Sunnydale, it never had the chance. Mind you," Giles admitted, "these vaults were probably next on the First Evil's 'hit list', as you would say."

Buffy began to pace before the small Library fire, undirected anger and worry beginning to clip her words short, "Okay so we should assume this 'vault' is still secure, with all its defenses thereof." She paused and sighed, "Goodie." Nothing could ever be easy, could it? "Any one of these three password-people survive? Or were they all killed in the bombing?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Damn, he was cleaning his glasses again. "To the best of my knowledge the first two are deceased, but the third remains … a mystery."

Buffy wasn't in the mood for mysteries. "Giles …" she growled, stopping before the fire-grate and punctuating every word with a sharp jab he obviously couldn't see. "Give me a name and a place and I. _Will_. **_Find_**. **Them**."

"I don't have a place, and the name is one I can't confirm. I heard it by accident, passing Travers office once years ago. Willow can't find it anywhere in the Council records, and Wesley has no idea –"

"GILES!"

Her ex-Watcher sighed. "Dumbledore. The name is Albus Dumbledore."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore stared out of his office window, his ancient face lined with worry he could no longer disguise. The last of his students had left the castle this morning, and now at noon a brilliant sun warmed the empty grounds. 

"I hope," he spoke out loud, more to himself then any other, "that I have done the right thing."

A low chuckle answered him, and with a faint smile Albus turned from the window to focus on the other man in the office. He was a rough, hard-looking man, with various absent body pieces a mute testament to his chosen life. "I'm sure Fudge'd pay handsomely to hear you say that."

Dumbledore did not scowl, but some of his smile faded. 'Minister' Fudge was now on his last days of office, yet Albus could find no peace in the reappointment. Too much damage had already been done.

"Nevertheless," he continued, moving slowly to his desk, "It is true." His eyes brushed the broken mementoes and thrown inventions that still littered his office. He hadn't taken the moment of thought needed to repair them yet, and knew the gesture was another indication of an old man's folly.

"My heart is trying to tell me that Harry would be much safer spending the summer here at Hogwarts, and that you – my old friend – would be, too."

Alastor Moody chuckled in his raspy way, "I won't speak for the boy, but I know you wouldn't have asked meto make such a journey, in complete secrecy from both theDeath Eaters _and_ the Ministry,were it not necessary to the Order. An' if you want me to travel half-way across the planet, dodging dark wizards and lingering demons and whatever surveillance the Circle has set up, then by Merlin's beard I'm going to do it."

"Of course," Moody continued, hisone good eye searching Dumbledore's face as the Headmaster settled behind his desk with a sigh, "you do realize that if _we_ know the Mouth of Hell has been destroyed, it's damned likely that You-Know-Who does too."

Albus glanced across his disordered desk and favoured the old Auror with a twinkling smile. "Ah, but I am only guessing at such things, my old friend. It is much more probable that Tom, who has studied extensively in the Dark Arts, was informed the very moment its strength began to fail."

"So what _do_ you want me to dodge demons for then?" Moody frowned down his much-abused nose. "If it's not information …"

"I have recently received warning of another occurrence in the area, one I would like you to investigate."

Alastor stared at Dumbledore for a long moment, his wizened face slowly darkening with suspicion. "If you're talking about what I _think_ your talking about – and I had informants in the area, so don't you think I wasn't wise – then you also know there's nothing I can do. You'll need to get Slughorn on this one, and that's about as likely as Lucius Malfoy serving me dinner."

Albus Dumbledore nodded at the truth of these words, leaning forward to steeple his hands on his desk. Looking down into the chasm of his own palms, he said, "I am aware of that, my friend. And, most fortunately, have already discovered the whereabouts of our old acquaintance."

Moody stared, shocked, knowing he shouldn't be. But after a moment he snored rudely through his nose, and conjured a stool to perch on before the Headmaster. "A neat trick, that, since the man's been on the run for a year. Never staying in one place longer'un a week, and never at the same place twice."

Those blue orbs twinkled again, "Nevertheless, I have managed to acquire the location of Horace Slughorn, and shall be calling upon him shortly, for aid in this and other matters."

Catching the meaning behind Dumbledore's words, Alastor leaped from his stool and swore loudly – vehemently enough to wake two of the sleeping portraits. "You mean to go through with it then? Blast it, Dumbledore! I had hoped … if you didn't find anyone …"

"Of course I mean to go through with it. Horace – "

"– will never agree to return to the school. I don't care how you go after him, that Slytherin coward will never consent –"

"Horace Slughorn may be a man of creature comforts," Dumbledore continued in a smooth voice, "but he knows the truth when he hears it. And the truth remains that Hogwarts is one of the last safe places in our world." His voice grew heavy, "For now."

Alaster Moody refused to be distracted by the tired look in Dumbledore's eye, determined to press his case. But after a moment he sighed, knowing argument with Dumbledore was as useless as wishing You-Know-Who back to the grave. "Well," he coughed, determined that Albus know his place in this, "I just want you to know that … well, I know I didn't …" he growled, "What I'm saying is I know I never taught here before, but I'm here now, and if you ever need me …" He trailed off as Albus lifted his head and gave him a weary smile.

"I appreciate the gesture, my old friend. And I take your concerns under consideration. But for now, I need you in California."

Alastor gave the man he respected above all others a small smile. "Then I'll go, dodging demons for a good cause." He paused then, considering the situation, "SupposingI dofind it, do you want me to bring itback here, or …?"

Dumbledore nodded, "If possible, if it can be done safely, then yes. But Alastor –" the aged Headmaster fixed him with a stern look, " – if it is a choice of you or it, get yourself home. Is that understood?"

The ex-Auror chuckled, a sweeping gesture taking in every measure of his broken appearance. "Don't insult me, Dumbledore, you know I always get myself back in one piece."

He was rewarded with another smile, and giving a wave, turned to leave. The Head of the Order of the Phoenix had given him a mission, and for all the discord of the day, it felt good to be on the move again. Hunting dark wizards, doing what he was good at, what he was made for …

Albus Dumbledore watched the ex-Auror leave his office, his eyes following the man until he knew the spiraling staircase would carry him beyond the reach of his magical eye. When he was sure he was alone, Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair, weariness taking him. It was done – he had made all his plans for the summer, had written the letters and placed them where they could be mailed, should the need arise. Sending Alastor to the Hellmouth had been his last, delayed duty. And now …

… now he was ready.

Standing swiftly from behind his desk, Albus quickly gathered the last of his supplies. Now that the moment had come, he desired to leave, to begin the challenge. Putting it off further would do nothing but give Tom another day of strength, were his suspicions correct. Filling a small bag, he paused at last in his office, which look much the same as it had moments ago. He wouldn't need much, on this journey. Only what power, what knowledge and wisdom he could bring with him. Leaving his sanctuary, he spared a glance only for Fawkes, for the instructions already left between them. He knew his friend would honour his request. The phoenix's parting coo was a cool comfort, but there was no time for comfort now.

It was time, time to leave. Time to find Severus.

* * *

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_- raiining_


	4. Chapter Three

_I'm glad to hear the speculation that's going on! Hope this chapter raises new questions for you all - Enjoy!_

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep:

Chapter Three

Dawn was her normal self that morning, yawning at the breakfast table in the compound's small kitchen. It was an interesting building they had lived in these past two weeks – a half-house, half-school brick red building that felt so … so _European_ that it took some getting used to. There were real curtains on the windows and an espresso maker on the counter. Odd-looking art decorated the bare brick walls, milk was sold in small cardboard containers, and it was so prohibitedly expensive that even Buffy agreed it was better to buy cream instead. It was odd to see Dawn sitting alone at the table, since by the time Buffy woke late after a night of patrolling with the new Slayers, everyone and their uncle seemed crammed into the tiny room. But this morning she stumbled into the oddly empty kitchen around six, having spent the remainder of the night pouring through the library for any off-mention of an 'Albus Dumbledore'. Her search had been frustratingly futile, and she was now desperately in need of coffee. Fortunately Denton, the only other insane person up this early, was just pouring Dawn a small cup of espresso. As the oldest Slayer yawned her way into the kitchen, he turned toward her with a smile and reached for another cup.

"Late night?" he asked, filling her tiny glass with the strong elixir and handing it to the thankful Slayer. She was always surprised how much caffeine they managed to smuggle into such a tiny cup.

"In a researchy-kind of way," she replied, stifling another yawn. Denton looked curious, and Buffy considered what to ask him as she moved towards the counter to add some sugar and cream. Dawn stood, stretched, and still managed to beat her there, making Buffy blearily realize how slow she was this morning. All-night study sessions just weren't the same without Xander and his donuts. She waited until Dawn had diluted her own java, and then traded the sugar for the cream. Dawn handed it to her with a tired smile, and Buffy felt a new rush of protectiveness towards her. This Dumbledore could hide in the deepest, darkest castle and Buffy would find him – she would do anything she could to protect her sister.

Speaking now to both Denton and Dawn, Buffy began her carefully planned cover story. In this case, protecting her sister unfortunately meant lying to her.

"Giles called last night," she began, trying to sound as casual as possible. Dawn perked up at her pseudo-father's name, and Buffy continued "he's got an assignment for us. There's a man we have to find in England." Buffy looked over at Denton, "Maybe you've heard of him – an Albus Dumbledore?"

She watched carefully as Pierre considered the name, looking for any signs of shock or concealment. Not that she had any reason to believe he'd hide anything from them – Pierre Denton had been the most cooperative Watcher in Paris, a man who'd actually been on a few of the Council's lesser committee's, and served as the Head Watcher here in France. He hadn't known Giles personally, but he had heard _of _him. Of course, since the Council had fired him at one point, it hadn't all been good publicity – but Denton recognized that Buffy's unheard of survival was a testament to her Watcher's methods.

Still, Buffy wasn't about to take anything at face value – not when her sister was concerned.

"Dumbledore …." Denton turned the name over in his mind, then unexpectedly looked up surprised, "You know, I have. It's once of those names you hear somewhere and never quite forget, t´as pigé?"

Buffy made a face; she hated it when he lapsed into French. It made her feel very dumb, especially since Dawn was beginning to pick up on the language after only two weeks in the country. "It _is _a weird name," she agreed, and her sister laughed. "Do you have any idea where you might have heard it before?" Buffy asked him, "Was it in England by any chance?"

Pierre frowned, "It was, actually – years ago, now. I was traveling to a committee meeting – something about an odd report in the papers: a flying car had been seen in London. It was a strange business – I was skeptical at first, but the few eyewitnesses we managed to track down swore on their mother's eyes they'd seen it circling around King's Cross. We launched an investigation, but strangely the evidence seemed to disappear as quickly as it could be uncovered. Finally we re-questioned the witnesses, discovered that each and every one of them had forgotten the incident completely! In the end we concluded it might have been a rogue witch fumbling with her powers, perhaps calling upon Mercury for speed during rush hour or something, and then erasing the memory of all who'd witnessed the accident."

"That would take some pretty concentrated magic," Dawn commented with a frown, popping some toast into the counter-oven. "Did you ever find out who did it?"

Denton shook his head, "No. We kept an eye out for future reports of the like, but never heard anything. Seems whoever was responsible learned their lesson."

"Interesting," the Slayer agreed, "but where does this 'Dumbledore' fit in?"

Pierre poured himself another cup of coffee, "It was as I was leaving London, on my way to the underground. My mind was still on the flying car and the odd way our evidence had disappeared. So when I heard mention of it in a passing conversation, I thought I was imagining things. But then I slowed and saw the strangest looking pair: it was a man wearing golfer's pants with some of your American cowboy boots, and this bright plaid top, and another man in a raincoat though there wasn't a cloud in the sky! And the two were talking – laughing rather – about the flying car and how someone would get in such trouble for the invention. Then they muttered a bit more that I couldn't make out – it was a rather busy day in London and I was trying to be inconspicuous about my eavesdropping – but I'm quite sure I heard the name 'Albus Dumbledore' mentioned, and something about 'setting the whole thing straight'."

Pierre shrugged, "I always assumed that this Dumbledore was the witch, or warlock rather, that we were searching for, but as I was already leaving London and the incident had led to no harm I decided not to mention it to the Council. I'd even have forgotten the name entirely had the pair talking of him not looked so strange! Even," he smiled good-naturedly, "for the English."

Buffy smiled back, but her mind was whirling. "Do you think you could remember exactly where you heard this pair talking? I know it's been years, but I'd like to check the place out. Giles couldn't find much information on this man at all, and any lead would be helpful."

Denton agreed as Dawn walked over and handed a piece of toast to her sister, "So we're heading to England, then?" She asked, "Do you think the girl's here are ready for us to leave so soon?"

Buffy nodded, accepting the breakfast with a smile, "They'll be fine, Marie and Jose were well trained to begin with, and the others have caught on quickly. Besides," she smiled at Denton, "they have good Watcher's to look out for them." He looked pleased at the complement, and poured Dawn the last of the coffee. But by the time he turned back to Buffy, there was concern written plainly on his face.

"Are you sure you feel comfortable heading into England by yourselves? It makes me nervous to have the two of you in that country alone – the First Evil could have left spies and informants there, the ones who blew up the Council buildings."

Buffy shook her head, "We'll be fine, Ms. Wants-to-be-a-Watcher here can do the preliminary research for us today," she chuckled as Dawn beamed over her coffee, "and then we can head in tomorrow. I'd like to leave this morning," she confessed, finishing her toast, "but we owe the girl's a good-bye."

"It's pointless to begin a person-search without some preliminary research, anyways." Dawn piped up, obviously pleased to be give her own 'assignment'. It was the first time Buffy had ever asked her to research something on her own, and though she looked excited at the prospect of proving herself, Buffy knew her own motives were not so pure. Giles had given her a few small leads to pursue in Paris before they left, and Buffy needed her sister occupied while she hunted them down.

Still, she was sure her sister would do a fine job with the research on England. Since their Night Of Ultimate Revelations, as it had come to be called, when Dawn had revealed her secret desire to become a Watcher, Buffy had been noticeably hesitate about the idea. She felt her sister deserved the chance to get out of this rough gig, to make her own life as far away from demons and apocalypses as she could. But after several weeks of traveling, even Buffy had to admit her sister had potential. She picked up demon languages exceptionally fast, was a wiz at researching, and seemed to have a sixth sense for wonky portals. Not unusual abilities, Giles had commented when Buffy told him about her observations, for the Key, but useful nonetheless.

But new places and demons were always a risk, and at first she had tried to leave Dawn behind where she would be safe. It took four weeks of Dawn repeatedly sneaking out to follow whatever gaggle Buffy was teaching at the moment, and after being caught only once in a month, Buffy had finally relented to her desire to learn. They had re-started the private lesions begun at the end of last year (when Buffy had tearfully told Dawn she wanted to show her the world and not protect her from it … because _that_ resolution had turned out so well), and Buffy had to admit Dawn was doing exceptionally well.

Until she got one of her black-out moments in the middle of a training session. Then Buffy had had to pull back at the last minute to avoid slicing her own sister in half, because Dawn had dropped her axe and simply stood staring into space. That was when Buffy had _really_ begun to worry. And Dawn had come to herself with no recollection of any time having passed.

"Is there any possibility of doing a location spell on this mysterious Mr. Dumbledore?" Dawn asked now, her attention already focused on the task at hand. Denton beamed like a proud parent, he had spent the past two weeks teaching her such simple spells after all, but it was Buffy who answered.

"I thought of that," she admitted, "but Willow said even she would need something personal of his to focus in on. Especially since we have no idea what we're looking for – all Giles could give us was the name, and it was one he overheard by accident. We're assuming he's a man who lives in England, who may or may not be responsible for a magical flying car incident," she nodded to Denton who looked thoughtful, "but that's really all we have to go on."

Dawn frowned, "Then why are we looking for him in the first place? I mean – if this car thing was years ago, what do we care?" She looked up at Buffy, "Does Giles think this Dumbledore had something to do with what happened at the Council Headquarters – with the bombing?"

Buffy didn't think so, but she couldn't very well say that here. Instead she shrugged, "I don't know. Giles heard the name passing Travers' office years ago, and yet he isn't listed among the dead at Headquarters. And since we can't find any information on him, he seems to be a bit of a mystery. He might have been someone Travers knew – and if Travers knew him, I'd like to speak to him myself." Buffy finished, her voice gone hard. There was no love lost between her and that evil man.

"Besides," she continued after a moment, "Giles needs all the help he can get right now. There's the distinct possibility that this Dumbledore could be someone useful to have on our side."

Dawn smiled at that, and looked satisfied. Denton, however, appeared not so convinced. Buffy took the hint and flashed Dawn a smile, "Better get on your research then, Ms. Watcher Lady. And don't forget to pack, too. We'll leave first thing in the morning."

Dawn rolled her eyes, heading for the library and the small computer therein, "As if we ever _unpack_ anymore."

Buffy waited until her sister's footsteps faded from even her enhanced Slayer's hearing. Then she turned to Denton and gave him an innocent look. "What?"

Denton stared back her, unapologetic. In many ways, Buffy decided, he reminded her of a cross between Spike and Giles. Someone who could read her fairly well, and still make her feel guilty about the simplest things. "This isn't about finding a potential source, is it? This is about your sister." He gave her a measuring stare. "You're still worried about her, aren't you? I heard about what happened on Tuesday – during training."

Buffy sighed and took Dawn's place at the small breakfast table. She didn't like to think of the axe that had come within finger-inches of cutting her sister in half. "And she didn't remember a thing after – it was like she was just … not there."

Denton looked concerned, and joined her at the table. "So what does this warlock have to do with her? Can he help somehow?"

"I hope so," Buffy answered, shrugging slightly. "Apparently there's some book about the nature of the cosmos, or something. It was in some secret-special vault, and only this Dumbledore has access to it anymore. I need that book, ergo – I need Dumbledore."

The Watcher gave a low whistle, "You're looking for Vault? That's …" he frowned, "how would you American's say it? 'Heavy stuff'?"

Buffy laughed, "Yes, it sounds like it. Do you know anything about it? Any idea where it is?"

Denton shook his head, "No I don't. It wasn't talked about much, though I'm curious that this Dumbledore has access. Now I wonder if he _was_ behind the flying car incident, and if we were never supposed to find out more about him." He shook his head, "I wonder what Travers would have done if I had reported his name after all – perhaps erased _my_ memory, too."

Buffy didn't smile, "I don't doubt he would have." She sighed, "No ideas where it is then?"

"No – though I got the feeling that it was … not here, somehow. In another dimension, perhaps. Or otherwise beyond normal accessibility." Denton looked apologetic, "Again, it wasn't mentioned much. We only knew that the most secret, most important documents were kept there, including a few scrolls reportedly written by the Greats – Tarpeia of Rome, Groa wife of Aurvandil, and even Merlin himself."

Buffy, understanding only one name on that list, looked thoughtful. "If we can find this vault, then, it might actually hold the information needed to help Dawn. There must have been some secret info on the Key there."

Denton looked hopeful; it was obvious that he had grown to care for Dawn while she tutored under his care. "It is very possible. But if you are looking for the Vault," he shook his head, "I don't know where you can begin. I can't even begin to advise you, and I worry even more about the two you of you traveling to England alone. Those who served the First are still around, and they too may be looking for the secrets hidden there – to bring him back, or open another door. Please, accept some help in this quest – Maria or even Jose would be glad to accompany you …"

But Buffy leaded forward and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "No, thank you Pierre, but if you're right and we are in a race – the fewer of us there are to travel, the faster we will be, and the greater the chance of slipping into the country unseen. We know you are here, if we need you. That knowledge is enough for now."

He didn't look happy about it, but after a moment he sighed and agreed. "Fine, but please look after yourselves. And do make an effort to contact those Awakened Slayers in England, if you can do so quietly. I can only say what a difference it has made for these girls, to understand their new abilities. Besides, they will be of use to you, should you run into difficulties."

Buffy gave him a tight smile, "I will, once we are orientated in London. If there's no immediate lead on this Dumbledore we're going to need some local help. Besides," she continued, her voice lowering as she remember her own first days as a called Slayer, "I would not leave anyone to that fate. To no longer know who you are ... she shivered, slightly, "… it is not a pleasant thing. Especially when there are men out there, hiding behind corners, trying to kill you."

Denton shook his head, "I can only imagine."

* * *

Jericho looked about the abandoned warehouse with a sneer, his upper lip curling from behind his mask. He swept a measuring, cold blue gaze over the pathetically few men who stood shivering before him, and turned to the masked Second at his side.

"Is this the best you can do, Maddock?" He growled, gesturing to the wretched lot. Behind him, likewise garbed, sniggered what was left of the original guard. "Twelve boys, with no training or purpose in life, brought here by the promise of power only? How do you expect us to carry out our Lord's last request, to prepare the world for His arrival, with such rabble?"

Maddock paled beneath his mask, but before he could reply an unexpected voice echoed from Jericho's left.

"An excellent question," spoke a disembodied voice. Jericho started towards the sound, and immediately a man revealed himself inside their mist, sweeping invisibility from him as if stepping out from behind a cloak. Jericho stared – the man was like them, only not. He wore a mask that differed from theirs, and black robes of an unfamiliar cut, but there was cool superiority in his voice, and Jericho felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

"Kill him!" He shouted into the room, knowing their continued presence demanded utmost secrecy. Whoever had the gall to infiltrate their unit would be destroyed.

Jumping at his voice, two of the new recruits roused themselves from their shock and sprung towards the man. Perhaps they thought this was some kind of an entry test, as if serving their Lord were some stupid college fraternity club, for they threw themselves at the man with sudden gusto.

But the man simply raised his arm and spoke incomprehensible sounding words – and Jericho felt himself stepping back as a green light erupted in the dim room, and the two recruits were thrown from their feet. By the way they landed, it was clear that both were dead.

"Wha--?"

It was Maddock, still at his side. Jericho felt a sudden rush of gratitude for his presence – if the man turned on him, perhaps he could push Maddock into the path of the strange green light.

But the man turned back to him with a sneer at the two dead men, and Jericho could see there was a wand of some kind in his hand. A magic-user, then. He paled – he had seen magic-user's in the past, but none of them had ever killed with such efficiency before. Usually there were complex rites needed to curse the offender with the wrath of their God.

"Rabble," the man shrugged, turning from the dead men as if they were broken toys "you were right about that. And," he continued with a measuring glance at those still standing in the dirty warehouse, "about the force present here. You can never perform your Lord's holy work with such …" Jericho could almost see the man's lip curl behind his mask, "… resources."

Rage and fear mixed inside the leader's belly, and in the end resentment won out. "What do you care, or know of it?" He spat, "We do Holy Work, and God will preserve us in our –"

"As he preserved your comrades?" the man interrupted him, "For I assume you at least began with more than I see here before me."

"We crossed the world with our numbers," Jericho retorted, anger making his voice shake, "but the others were weak, and died for that weakness."

"That they did," the man continued, walking forward into their midst. The new recruits shrank before him, but Jericho was proud to see his old guard remained firm. "But I believe that your Lord has left you now, or He truly would have helped them survive."

"We do not crave our Lord's protection," a man from the back – Redrick, Jericho recognized his voice – spoke, "we seek only to do His will."

The magic-user nodded. "Then I see you are true followers of a Dark Lord. And yet you are lost." His eyes flashed in the dim light, "My Lord offers you redemption."

"_Your_ Lord?" Jericho sneered, "There is only one Dark God, and we are his true servants –"

"Yes, yes," the man interrupted him in a bored voice. He turned, brazenly showing his back to them, and Jericho could see the long blonde hair that hung almost to his waist. It chilled him, for some reason. "We could play the 'My Dark Lord is more powerful then Your Dark Lord' game all afternoon if we so chose, but let us not. Instead," he turned back to them, raising his voice over the various mutterings that erupted from the assembled, "let us continue with the offer my Lord has made – he will accept your service and your fidelity, and in return he will offer you the resources to carry on your holy task."

"We serve only one Lord," Maddock declared, standing tall. "We will not abandon Him."

"Of course not," the man retorted, surprised, as if he had never considered the idea, "for you serve a dark god of chaos, yes I understand that. But he is gone now, and my Lord remains. He is no god – not yet," his eyes flashed again, "but he too serves the dark god of all things -evil itself."

Jericho frowned, thinking of the power this lone man had displayed. "What would he have us do?" He asked slowly.

"Exactly what you want to do, but find you cannot. Pursue your agenda, kill all the Potentials," a shocked murmur went up from the small crowd, and the magic-user's voice became pleased. "Oh yes, he knows of your mission, my Lord does. And he approves, of course. Muggles tampering with such forces," a rush of hatred filled his voice, "it's despicable."

Before Jericho could ask him what he meant, the man continued, his voice honey smooth once again. "In return for your service, my Lord will provide you with materials that shall further your goals, and," he dipped his masked head, "if you would consent, he believes he has located some excellent targets on your behalf. You would then be allowed to pursue these and other girls at your own leisure."

Maddock looked suspicious, "And if we refuse?"

Jericho could swear the man grinned from behind his white mask, "Why, I will kill you all. And then you can join your dead comrades in the failed service of your dark god."

The men behind him were silent, but the new recruits audibly trembled with fear. Jericho stared into the pale eyes of the magic-user, and believed him.

Swiftly making up his mind, he swept a hand around the warehouse, to indicate all those within it. "There is no need for such theatrics, we all desire to serve our God, and if your dark lord will provide us with a means to do that, then we will be glad to swear fidelity to such a mortal man."

Jericho almost jumped at the feeling that pulsed through the man's eyes at the word 'mortal', but the next moment he could swear he had imagined it only, because the man was nodding and his eyes smiled.

"Excellent. Reinforcements shall arrive within moments, and we'll have to ensure your allegiance, of course. And then," his eyes glittered, "you can begin your work immediately."

There were a few excited murmurs from behind Jericho, but he ignored them. Instead he looked towards the magic-user and asked, hungry to do his Lord's work, "You have targets for us then? Potentials whose death is the Will of God?"

"Oh yes," the blonde man agreed, his eyes revealing his fierce sincerity. "We do have some suggestions for you. Tell me," he said, as loud _cracks_ echoed around the warehouse, and more magic-user's appeared in their midst, "have you ever heard of the village Ottery St Catchpole?"

* * *

Translation:

t´as pigé? –you know?

* * *

_Review review review! And sign in, if you can - that way I can respond._

_Oh, just to orient everyone in ways of timing, this chapter takes place just at the end of the summer, before Harry's sixth year. I'll make no promises, but we should catch up the Golden Trio soon, and then we'll jump into Harry's seventh year and continue to the story line there._

_Again - review please! Honesty is appreciated most, of course, and if you don't like it I'd love to know why. And if you do - well, why's are good there, too!_

_-- raiining_


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